Well Put
by Paintastics
Summary: A series of short stories based upon quotes. The lives of Holmes and Watson, including everyone else in their world, will be wrapped around the well put words of others.
1. No regrets

_"When you have to kill a man, it cost nothing to be polite." _

_Winston Churchill_

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"You really have found everything against me, haven't you?"

"It would appear that way, yes."

"As it should be, I suppose."

"I find I quite agree with you."

"And do you intend to pull that trigger?"

"I've been prepared to do so for the past thirteen seconds, my austere friend."

There is a darkness filling this room, the only visibility being granted by a solitary candle placed quietly on the other side of the room. In this dark space, however, there exist no fear, no sorrow, no regrets, and no intentions of escape. What we do find are two gentlemen sitting across from one another in complete and total repose. The only detail to mar this composed setting is the solemn figure of Sherlock Holmes holding a steady pistol no more than two inches before the chest of one Joseph Stone.

The individual at gun point cannot help but relinquish a small laugh. Sherlock Holmes smiles at this, eyes gleaming despite the wickedness of the situation.

"I really don't know how you did it, Holmes. I honestly don't. Would you please, as a last request, tell me how it is you found me out? Before I am to depart this world at your steady hand?"

There is quiet suspense in the air as the man sitting in front of him tilts his head to the side and studies the criminal before him. He is silent at first, turning over the man's request. Why not, he decides, why not tell this man about his final folly?

"You forgot to remove the small hair pin from your collar, I'm afraid. Had you not done so, you would have been a free man for... oh, I don't know, maybe a few more hours?"

"A few hours would have been grand." he responds heartily.

"I am sure your wife would have enjoyed them. Maybe even more than you. It's most unfortunate you ended her the way you did." Holmes recounts.

"Indeed? I was sure you'd agree with my motives." The man remarks.

"It is true that she was wrong-- terribly wrong. But to stab her with the very pin which you gave her as a birthday gift was brutal, Mr. Stone."

"Aye, I suppose it is. And I suppose again that you are going to shoot me because I have, in some way, wronged you?" There is sincere curiosity in the man's voice. Holmes slowly blinks and readjusts the gun's position.

"I am going to shoot you, Mr. Stone, because there is no hope for you. True, your endeavors have been most disturbing and the gallows will surely be requested, however, I don't think they will suffice. And if I can be morbidly honest, I _do_ find myself thinking that had I been in your shoes, I would have done the same thing." He now pauses as the man before him closes his eyes. The detective can see the single escaped tear slid slowly down the face of the man with bloodied hands. In a gentle manner, Holmes continues. "There are no suspects; no one knows but me. I am sure the gentlemen at Scotland Yard will find something to report to the awaiting citizens of this great city, but it will all be false."

Stone casually wipes the falling tear from his cheek and looks deeply into the murky gray eyes before him. He sees that there is an odd combination of passion, anger, anxiety, perhaps even a little regret? No, not regret; vengeance. This is strange.

"Why?" he asks in an interested whisper. "Why will you not tell them of this?"

"Because this is a matter concerning no one but ourselves. You struck a nerve of mine when you inadvertently sent my dear friend to the hospital, so I feel it justified that I may present the punishment as I see fit. I could have killed you at first sight; I could have screamed at you for all you have done; I could have even tipped off the officials. But it wouldn't be enough, you see?"

The condemned man nods, putting hand to chin as if contemplating his next move in a chess game. Finally, he looks up to the ceiling of the dank room and sighs.

"Have you ever had any regrets, Holmes? Will you regret killing me?"

"I can't say that I would. I've never regretted killing anyone before this, and those words will still stand true once this is done."

"Better me than you, eh?"

"Better you than my closest and dearest."

"Of course. I only wish my dearest Lucy was as considerate as you."

The click of the hammer being pulled back shatters the calm like a pebble to a thin sheet of ice. Joseph Stone can feel the pressure of the barrel on his breast and knows what is about to happen. Sherlock Holmes stares at him, taking note of the free falling tears over the yet serene features of the man about to die.

He leans in, and in a low soothing voice, whispers, "I'm going to pull the trigger now."

"I really do hope he pulls through."

"As do I."

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**I'd leave off with "*Click*" but I've already done that in one of my stories. :D**


	2. I do not see

_"__A friend should be a master at guessing and keeping still: you must not want to see everything.__"_

_Friedrich Nietzsche _

There is something troubling my dear Watson. He has been removed for days now, and completely disinterested. He ignores his practice as well as the food and sleep for which his body so desperately needs. My dear friend doesn't even notice me when I sit before him in front of the fire. It if for this is reason that I have been prompted to turn away each of my potential clients in order to get to the bottom of this mystery.

What could it be, I wonder? What has happened to John Watson that would have him literally cowering in a corner?

When I enquire upon the matter, my questions are met with choked sobs and diverted gazes. Could it be my fault? Is it possible that Watson is put off by my presence? Well that cannot be it, otherwise he wouldn't hesitate to depart.

As I look at him now, he sits in the repositioned basket chair which now faces out towards the darkened window. His breathing is even, legs still, and I observe his nervous fingers idly picking at the others. It is his eyes which are so captivating, twisting me into a state unease. It unnerves me how they appear to stare into nothingness. It doesn't take much self-searching for me to admit that I am not liable to emotions such as nerve and fear except in the most extreme of cases. Watson, however... Watson is making me very much afraid.

I felt as though I was losing him to an all-engulfing fiend of despair, and I was loath to admit that I could do nothing. And do not think for one moment that I haven't tried! Dear me, lord knows I have tried... if only Watson would do his part and grasp the hand I extend to him.

So unlike his usual cheery self, I had first come to the conclusion that for whatever reason, the doctor had helped himself to my cocaine. The thought was gone nearly as soon as it had come, however. Watson thoroughly enjoyed life, and thus had no reason to buckle down to the commands of artificial stimulants.

It is simply impossible.

I've now come to stand beside his chair, grasping not his hand, but the armrest next to it.

"Watson." I whisper, not expecting a reply. And, as often is the case, I am correct. His listless eyes continue to look out helplessly into the dark streets below him as I begin to drum my fingers loudly against the chair. "My dear fellow, you must come away with me. Leave whatever ailments you have and return here, to Baker Street." I murmur in a low voice. I notice his jaw clench at the sound of my voice.

Clearly I am saving no lives with my words to night. All is well, I doubt he can hear them anyway.

Kneeling down next to him, I take his hand in mine and twine my fingers through his. I am utterly surprised when I feel him return the gesture.

"I am lost, my dear Watson. I need help." I mutter, looking down at our hands. His heavily lidded eyes slowly blink and come round to meet mine. He says nothing, yet his eyes speak volumes. Or so I'd like to have believed. The more accurate truth would be that his eyes were so barren and empty that they caused mine to look in shock.

I squeeze my eyes shut and sigh, turning away from my friend's cold stare in shame. I really must wonder how much of this is for him, as much as it is for the sake of my own guilt? There are times when I really do dislike myself. It is for this reason that I feel as though I own Watson as much. I don't think twice before speaking, nor do I mask any emotion which may become evident in my voice.

"Watson, your detached nature is frightening me." my voice... quavers more than I had anticipated.

"I'm sorry." he replies in a dull and hollow voice.

Our eyes lock in earnest despair. His brows are heavily furrowed and his eyes are heavy.

"My dear fellow, I know that something is torturing you and it is tearing me apart not being able to help you!"

He doesn't reply. His hard eyes simply stare intently at my worried face as I fall apart before him. I now grab his hand with both of mine, rubbing circles into the heel of his palm.

"I apologize, Watson, it's incredibly selfish of me to be thinking about myself when it is you I ought be concerned." his eyes close now as I continue. "I realize that... whatever this is, these inner monsters, I know that if you wanted me to help, you would not hesitate to ask. But you havn't. And... I suppose it's not that you don't trust me, but for some better reason you keep me in the dark. I do not know if I should thank you, as it's impossible for me to deduce what is amiss. So Watson, my dear, dear fellow, I want you to know that should you ever wish to confined in me, no matter what this is about, I swear to you I will do everything in my power to save you and never will I think differently of my closest friend."

He is silent. He's been silent for so long now that I fine myself wishing for nothing more than to hear his voice. _His_ voice, not the one of utter sadness and depravity to which we have all come accustomed to. I lean closer, my fingers gently touching his chin and bringing his gaze back to mine. I study his eyes, his brows, all the infinitely small facial twitches which mar his composure.

I'm not to know. He will not tell me.

If ever the Doctor claims me to be a cold emotionless machine, I now have excruciatingly painful proof from this night that that claim is as false as the idea of faeries. When I was finally able to deduce anything of this black case, which was the revelation that I would remain blind, thoroughly left me feeling... well, I'm not entirely sure how I felt. I guess _nothing_ would suffice, but not in it's literal meaning. The nothing I felt was more of a numb depression, I suppose. I just felt like... _nothing_. Watson looked at nothing, so perhaps this was how he felt; though to the extent of seeing. I was not privy to the nothingness, for I could still see the blackness surrounding it.

I had been looking down at our hands again, thinking about the fingers which held my hand so tightly, the man with whom they belonged making my mind work on high steam trying to figure him out. It was when I came upon my little revelation that I had looked up. I think he understood that I was going to let it alone.

"Holmes..." for one diminutive second, his eyes expressed gratitude before promptly filling with tears. Still clutching my hand, he pulled my arm, and most of my upper body, into the chair with him. It wasn't the grasp of comfort received, rather, it was desperation. I had to use my free hand to brace myself in order to prevent my falling to the floor. Watson's grip held like the devil as his face pressed against my forearm, hot tears soaking through my shirtsleeves.

I shouldn't be here, I thought. I need to get away, go to my room, lock the door, I need to escape this. This-this... I _can't_. He wouldn't do that. I mustn't be rash simply because I am accepting the fact that not everything needs to be deduced and solved. As it stands right now, I believe Watson's tears, aside from being raw pent up emotion, are a sign of his acceptance for his choice of silence.

For some moments we sat in this awkward position with only my breathing and the Doctor's sobs resinating through out the room. I myself must have been harboring some tension, for when the Doctor's tears finally eased, I found myself sinking into some state of repose. I closed my eyes, sunk my head onto the armrest and pulled my dear friend close. I could keep making theories, deducing possibilities to his troubles, but I wont. It is clear to me now, as it should have been sooner, that I do not need to know everything, just was Watson needn't tell me everything. In time, he will tell me. And if he doesn't? Well, we all harbor secrets.

The best I can do is be here, and I shall not deviate from my task.

**This was a bit longer than I had anticipated, and OH MY GOD I had to write this story about three times before I got it right! But I am satisfied. I think I have a pretty good grasp with Holmes' dialogue, just took a bit of getting used to putting it in a constant narrative form. **

**Also, this has strayed sooooo far from the original image in my mind which had inspired this, but... ah well, I wrote it twice and it didn't work, guess that was a sign.**

**PS: Next one's happy, I promise!**


	3. What the deuce!

_"__Fortunate people often have very favorable beginnings and very tragic endings. What matters isn't being applauded when you arrive - for that is common - but being missed when you leave._"

_Baltasar Gracian_

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I could not stop staring at it. From the moment I entered Holmes' rooms at Baker Street, it had apprehended my fullest attention. There, sitting to the left of my friend on the settee, sat the strangest thing I ever expected to meet. Not to say that it was remarkable in itself, but that it was _inside_ the room, and _sitting_ as though it was something which belonged on the sofa, baffled me to no end!

"Holmes, what the deuce is _that_?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock Holmes cocked his head at me as though he hadn't noticed my arrival.

"That--that thing, sitting next to you. What is it?" I asked, pointing a finger at the object which had so puzzled me. Holmes followed my gaze to the spot next to him until his glittering eyes settled on said object. He chuckled.

"Oh! Don't pay him any mind, that is merely little Watson."

I was about to inquire Holmes on the use of the word _him_ when I realized the second part of the answer. My expression must have been rollicking, for Holmes burst out in laughter.

"_Little_ _Watson_?" I sputtered. I felt a whole new level of being appalled. "Holmes, it... eh, _what_?"

He laughed again at my expense before lovingly picking up the small object, leaning back, and patting the now unoccupied space next to him.

"Come! Come now, my dear fellow, and have a seat next to me. It's been a while, has it not?" There was a disturbing twinkle in his eye and I was hesitant to move. He merely rolled his eyes at me.

"Don't fret, dear Watson, there's assuredly room enough here for the both of you." He had placed a hand over his chest, I suppose, as an indication to his heart.

I pursed my lips and crossed the familiar room to sit beside my friend. "That I must share a space in your heart with that _thing_ is quite a shame on my part, I confess."

He turned to face me, drawing up his knees and wrapping his arms around them.

"As it should. But be that as it may, you must witness things through my perspective. You see, you left me two months ago to live with that new wife of which you're so fond of..."-he was, of course, referring to Mary- "and so I found myself incredibly abandoned and friendless in these empty rooms. So, I ventured up to your former bedroom and found this tremendous little fellow under your mattress. I pocketed him, and he has been with me ever since."

I now squinted in confusion as I stared, to my horror in _jealousy_, at Holmes' 'little Watson'. It--_his_, existence was still being processed within my mind as Holmes continued his story.

"Ever since I found him, life had retained some normality. We've been to the opera, strolled through the park, we even dined at Simpsons!" his constant use of the word 'we' was unsettling. "And I must also add that he has accompanied me on numerous cases as of late and is of much help to me. Always at my side, Watson is." he sighed in what I expect was pride.

"Pray tell, is there any reason as to why he is using _my_ name?" I asked, disgusted. I knew what Holmes was doing.

"It isn't your name, it's his."

I gave my friend a disbelieving look. He received it at returned an exuberant smile.

"Oh, alright. I confess I did appropriate your name, though with good reason. You see, it's awfully difficult having the Holmes-Watson partnership if there is no Watson to assist me."

"And so you have replaced me with a rock." Holmes was about to protest, as I'm sure I probably offended his new friend, but I held up a silencing hand. "Save it, old man. I know you haven't had a case since I left, so this small creation of yours must be your attempting to make me feel bad for moving out on you. I can assure you, my dear fellow, that that is hardly necessary!"

"Says the man who has a wife to go home to every night." he spat.

I grinned, slapping a hand on his shoulder. "It's alright, Holmes, Mary doesn't mind me accompanying you on your cases."

"I'm afraid that won't be necessary." he turned away now. "Little Watson and I-"

"Stop calling it that." I interrupted.

He looked at me, then continued. "_Watson_, and I, have been getting along just fine and I am not willing to throw him away simply because you've decided to grace me with your presence. You see, now that you know that you've been replaced, you can hardly bear the truth. Believe me when I say, Doctor, that I am flattered that you've returned to me, but to no avail. Face it, _old man_, I've moved on."

I tried to look hurt, but I simply could not hold back the roar of laughter I've been trying so desperately to suppress.

Holmes glared at me as I fell into hysterics and caved in on myself. His scrutinizing stare quickly melted into a beaming smile and soon he, too, was laughing like a lunatic.

After the fit had passed, leaving the two of us breathless, Holmes slid a hand down his cheek and chuckled once more.

"Actually, Watson- Doctor Watson, I do have a case. It came to me earlier this morning and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind accompanying me? It promises to be most spectacular as it involves a bumbling surgeon and a his newly decapitated friend."

"Splendid!" I cried. "And what is the mystery?"

"The mystery, Watson, is who stole that man's head and for what reason was the body found holding a bouquet of roses!"

I stood up, adjusted my hat and headed towards the coatrack.

"I'll only go with you is you leave _that_ behind. I don't think you'll be needing much of him anymore."

Holmes smiled up at me before getting to his feet and reaching for the coat I handed him. He still held in his hand the queer little rock before, much to my delight, dropping it where he stood and regarding me with a questioning look, right brow propped.

I nodded approvingly and swept out my arm. "Shall we?"

"Much to the late Watson's dismay, I think we shall."

We walked in comfortable silence down to the cab which was always ready for us. I was glad that I had been able to win the role of parter to Holmes over that silly little rock, however, I couldn't help but be disturbed that I even had to compete for it.

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**I know the quote is referring to death and the impact you have on those you leave behind, but I decided to completely ignore that detail and take a much lighter tone with it. I don't want all of these to be dark, and as I look at all the quotes I have compiled for this series, most of them will be (unintentional, I swear!). I would offer to do an alternative with this quote, but I know people don't care THAT much, and I wouldn't really care to rewrite for this specific one. SO THIS WILL JUST HAVE TO DO!**

**And also, I congratulate myself on not ambiguously using the word 'love' anywhere in this story. :**


	4. Children's Games

_I will not play tug o' war. I'd rather play hug o' war. Where everyone hugs instead of tugs, Where everyone giggles and rolls on the rug, Where everyone kisses, and everyone grins, and everyone cuddles, and everyone wins._

_Shel Silverstein_

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They were surrounded. Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, Inspector Lestrade and even young Hopkins were tricked into this night of black slaughter. All the constables had been lost on the way over to this abandoned churchyard, that fact not known until it was too late. 'Twas a cold night in the cemetery, the stones covered in moss, the walls crumbling like the dirt beneath an old man's boot, it was darker than even the shadows could bear.

Hopkins was leading the group, followed closely by his superior officer and the unofficial detective with the doctor bringing up the rear.

A soldier's ears really were the best.

Which is why it's such a shame that they were assaulted from above, on the rooftops, where the footsteps were not, could not, be heard.

The group scattered as about seven armed men stormed in upon them, guns at the ready yet not a bullet wasted. Just for fun. There had been jabs and punches, ears ringing and gums bleeding. Shouts from who knows who and blood from who knows where.

Between clenched teeth and hardened faces, the four men chose their opponents and began a fight to the bitter black end. The bone-to-bone collisions hurt no less on either side, but none would back down.

It was the moment a hand could be felt at the back of Hopkins collar that for the first time in his life, the young detective regretted not telling his landlady how much actually did love her cooking. He regretted not finishing his toast this morning when Inspector Lestrade strode into his small rooms informing him that 'they had a big one' in tow. Hopkins wished he wasn't here, wished the dangerous men were left in someone else's hands other than his. That way, he could finish every meal and thank dear Mrs. Morris every day of his life for the motherly love he knew she held for him. He thought all of this, and then his brains were scattered upon the rain-slick grass.

It's a shame. He was so young, holding so much potential.

Inspector Lestrade grappled with a man much larger than himself, but a life of being 'too short' taught him that there was no such thing as being overpowered by size alone. Hard knuckles cracked against his jaw, flesh rippled over bone as for a brief moment, all he saw was blinking lights. But he recovered, as he always did, and with two fingers stubbornly thrust out before his fist, his assailant lost both of his eyes. The Inspector ripped the man's revolver from his steely hand and put three heavy round in the man's chest.

He turned to assist Dr. Watson, when he heard a blood-choked grunt following a gunshot. His head snapped to the left, narrowly dodging a bullet himself, only to find Sherlock Holmes sink to his knees and fall over dead.

Doctor Watson didn't know that he had just lost his best friend.

Lestrade sworn an oath so foul he didn't bother to aim at the man who killed the detective. With a spray of bullets, he eventually got him. Holmes was dead, he knew, it was time to move on. He spun on his heel to charge at a taller man dressed in black, when his path was obscured by Watson suddenly darting before him. Did he see, Lestrade wondered? It didn't matter. Well, until he slipped backwards and knocked his head on the ground. Dear Hopkins had tripped his senior officer. What a childish trick.

Doctor John Watson, crack-shot ex. surgeon of the Queens Royal Army, shouted in morbid delight as he shot directly where he intended, just the right spot on the man's forehead to create a satisfying _POP_ sided with a splash of blood. It would seem that the doctor had lost himself a bit in the bloodshed. He must have seen. It would explain why he didn't hear Lestrade's warning about the man sprinting after him with a pistol aimed at his chest. That is, before someone from the far off right shot the Scotland Yarder, silencing his voice with a throat of blood. The reliable chronicler was fast though, for his sake, as the man who shot Lestrade had his chest decorated with lead Medals of Valor.

They were all dead! Every which way he turned, dead bodies lay in perfect stillness, greeting him with smiles and gleaming eyes. _Oh look_, he thought, _there's Lestrade and Hopkins_! He chuckled as his eyes soaked in the image of Lestrade's limp body tangled with the young officer's. His gaze trail over each body around him, their hats askew, blood on their coats, blood on the ground, blood in the air and blood pooling from Holmes' chest. He laughs as he sees his friend lying in the middle of it all.

Holmes stepped out way to early in this little game.

But the Doctor has no time to laugh with them all, as he finds himself propelled forward with a blunt pain in his chest. Silly man missed his heart, got the lung instead. He's got time, he knows, just enough time. Ah, good ol' Holmes, always at his side with just what they need to solve a case. Watson struggles over one of the criminal bodies and slowly pulls himself to his friend. The shooter is walking away. No worries, Watson's always been a good shot. But damn the blindness, he has a very difficult time feeling for Holmes' revolver. Oh! Right here, in his hand! Hugging his companion's shoulder for support, Watson levers himself up just high enough to get his shooter in view, and... _perfect_.

He sighs in relief and rolls over smiling.

"I-I got him, Hhh-holmes. We stopp--ped them."

His head rests heavily on Holmes' stilled back, Lestrade is fallen over a now-faceless Hopkins, and the entire criminal gang is fallen cold and dead.

_Looks like everyone won tonight._

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**This poem has always had an air of morbid humor behind it, I think. I could just imagine it going through someone's head as they were dying and witnessing the chaos still going on around them. Oh, I know. You can slap me for this if you want.**

**Anyway, I'm sorry to follow up my last story with one that kills everyone off, but can you blame me? AAAAANGST is just so darned easy with these fellows! I'll try to do another jovial story after, to make up for this.**


	5. Give it a try

_One of the greatest discoveries a man makes, one of his great surprises, is to find he can do what he was afraid he couldn't do._

_Henry Ford_

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"Go on, Sherlock, try it."

"No. I'll only embarrass myself."

"Fine, if you insist."

"I can promise you that I don't--"

"You woke up this morning and spilled mother's new bottle of ink when you were reaching for your stick,"

"Mycroft..."

"but your hand knocked it over, spilling it on the dog."

"Stop."

"You tried to clean it up with the nearest scrap of cloth, but failed to get the spot off your middle finger. When mother asked where it was, you went and hid in the pantry."

"You couldn't possibly know--"

"You also failed to brush off the flour in your hair. A blind man could see it from a mile away."

"I won't do it; this is stupid."

"You are also the one responsible for Ms. Turner's missing handkerchief--"

"Mycroft!"

"Which is now stuffed into your leather shoes, undoubtedly staining the interior with sodden black ink."

"Don't tell-- Mycroft, please!"

"You know my method, brother. Employ it."

"I-I won't... I'll make a fool of myself."

"Oh? Then you won't mind me trying to figure out why father is missing half of his tobacco and mother's perfume bottle is gone."

"I was trying a theory of mine."

"I had guessed that much. I only wonder where you hid the failed experiment, and whether I should tell dear mother and father at lunch, or at dinner."

"You wouldn't!"

"Oh, I intend to. After all, the wasted tobacco and sooty bottle are either shoved in the corner of the fireplace or placed by my own bed. If the latter, I must say, Sherlock, that that is a very devious ploy and I can assure you, it will only end in your own demise. Since you refuse to attempt my methods, you will be left cold while I have all the proof I need to frame you as being the one to misplace the items. Once I explain everything which I have just relayed to you, they will see--"

"You ate the last piece of chocolate yesterday when you've already had your share! I noticed the chair set askew in a way only someone of your hight and your clumsy feet could have moved. It was not mother, for she is taller and capable of reaching the tin without needing to set foot near the chair legs; father abhors sweets; the maids know better than to steal from us, and I sure didn't do it as I was incredibly dismayed to find it already gone when I had the full intention of eating it myself!"

"Well--"

"I also know that it was _you_, not the dog, who knocked the vase down when it shattered into thousands of pieces. I know this because for two weeks after, you didn't step foot in that hallway, and your touch was much gentler when handling the replacement that father handed to you. You, brother mine, also hadn't been able to look away from it's pedestal. Guilt, Mycroft! Guilt! You are as guilty as I am of anything in this house EVER!"

"Well done, Sherlock! Well done!"

"I know you hide things, I know lots of them."

"And now I have no reason to doubt you! You've let go of your insecurities, and now your mind is free to observe and fascinate."

"I did it... I was right? All of it?"

"More than I'd like, but seeing as how we both know the other guilty of many trifles, I trust your lips are sealed?"

"Perhaps,"

"Sherlock, the gleam in your eye threatens my assurance. You could stop a man cold with it."

"Maybe one day I shall."

"And one day, when you're chief at Scotland Yard, you'll be thanking me for forcing you to make your first deduction."

"And when you're a fat old banker who's too grand to reach across his desk for a piece of chocolate--"

"Why the devil do you think I'll be fat?"

"You know my methods, Mycroft. Employ them."

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**Strict dialogue is fun, I love it! **


	6. What I saw

_"Love is blind; friendship closes its eyes."_

_Friedrich Nietzsche_

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The first time I saw what lay in that morocco case, I dismissed it. I, on occasions, have woken up on stale mornings to find myself covered in spilled alcohol and vomit, so was not quick to chastise my new companion. Sometimes, one simply needs an escape. That was understandable. I continued reading my paper.

After a few weeks of repeatedly witnessing the needle burry itself in his bulging veins, I asked, "Is that really necessary?" to which he responded, "More than you think, Dr. Watson." I mumbled my own medical concerns, though I know he was already too far gone. I shook my head and sipped my tea.

After months of casual use, he was strongly advised against it. "Holmes, you are risking everything you have ever worked for, your health and your mind will decline dramatically. Are these small escapes really worth it?" "Obviously..." I stood, grabbed my coat, topped my hat, and went out seeking the company of better men.

A year had gone by. I've watched that damned plunger sink that vile concoction into his blood more than I've seen him eat. More and more is injected and more and more do I see the grey hide beneath dilated pupils. I've tried, said what I could but all to no avail. I know that as long as he feels the need to do it, he will not stop. Not for his health, his brain, his job, nor for me or my sake. I'm scared for him, but I know he worries not. Regrettably, I do as he asks, and turn the other way.

Last month, I found myself lifting the broken violin from where it resided beside the fire and stared into eyes of pure indignation. "Holmes, this has gone to far. I will not allow you to continue this; I will not let you kill yourself!" I scream at him, shoving his haggard form away from me and into a wall. His jaw clenches and his lip twitches. Thrusting a pale finger in my face, advancing forward, he shouts, "You will leave this room at once before I am forced make you do so myself! I will murder you in your sleep if you don't let me be-- Goddamn you!!" He hurls an old tea pot at my head, but I am able to deflect it. His eyes are wild as he searches for more things to throw, but I am gone before he gets the opportunity. I sink upon the floor as I hear object after object pelting the door at my back, oaths sworn so foul I am glad I can't see the face which mutters them. I bury my tired eyes upon my knees and fall asleep, knowing he will have forgotten it all by morning. The scene replayed in my dreams infinitely, but with great difficulty, I have shut it out of my mind. Had I been this man's wife, perhaps I would have been blind to the bleak truth of his actions. I would have been blind and allowed him his vice out of love. But I am not so. I don't have the choice to remain blind. But I did my best, and tightly closed my eyes.

It was to remain like that, until they were forever opened. On that day, not so long ago, in which I stepped into his room and found a corpse. Or what was nearly considered one.

I calmly walked up to his limp form, thinking it already too late. But, as a doctor, it was my habit to check; just in case. His eyes slid open at my touch and upon being unable to focus, closed.

"Holmes." I pull a blanket over his shivering form. "You've gone too far, my dear detective. I can no longer feign blindness."

Unintelligent words tumble from his lips, but I like to believe he was apologizing.

I liked to believe... that he asked me to keep my eyes open.

**

* * *

**

**I didn't want to do a binge story, but it found it's way here despite my wishes. Ah well, got it out of the way I guess.**

**I love this quote. I really, really do.**

**Okay, time to look for a happier one now.**


	7. Simply Intolerable

_"I have been complimented many times and they always embarrass me; I always feel that they have not said enough."_

_Mark Twain_

_

* * *

_

"Thank the Lord you're here, mist'r 'Olmes, sir! Don't know whot we'd've done wit out yeh!" You ought to be thanking _me_ for being here, not Him. He's got nothing to do with it.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes! Pleasure to meet you, sir, I've read all bout you!"

"Have you?" Why people think this impresses me, I have no idea.

"It's really you! Oh! I-I just want you to know that it is you who inspired me to take up a job here at the Yard, sir!" I can already tell that he won't last a week. In a rather childish manner, I roll my eyes and turn away. But really, what was I to do with such a blatant compliment on my art?

"Oh! Detective! Detective!" Oh, woman! Woman! "You remember me, yes? You don't? Well, I remember you; you helped me find my stolen jewel a few months back, and I- oh, I marvel at that brilliant mind of yours!"

_Do you, now? I don't think you do; I think you're merely a confused old woman._ "Ah, my good lady, thank you for the compliment." Never again shall I take this rout home.

"I owe my life to you, good sir, heaven knows it!"

"I can assure you, my good fellow, that it was not I who was responsible for your birth. Good day."

"Mister Holmes, such a nice time to see you! Look here, if you hadn't saved my dear Harry, my son may never had been born." What irony! "Aww but look at him, isn't he beautiful?"

_What an ugly child_. "Oh... hum." _ I will not lie, therefore, I will not speak._

I do hope that child never learns of me. Heaven knows I wish I never learned of it.

"Ahh, Sherlock Holmes, the Lord blesses me on this day! And what great use have you of His gifts! I trust you thank him everyday for that grand mind yours?" Hnn, that smile. "God bless you, my child, may the Lord be with you."

"Thank you, Father, but it is by my own doing that I deduce the correct truths. You will not find me crediting someone else for it." Perhaps I will walk away a bit faster after that, the Lord has his ways, after all....

"Oh, mister Holmes, you look _ravishing_ this evening!"

"Ah, my blushes, my good... man. Thank you." Well then, what to make of that? I think the logical conclusion would be to set my hat askew and keep walking.

"What a deed you do for our grand city!"

"Of course."

"You saved my business, sir! Now if you'll come here a moment, I think I could interest you in this new book which just arrived..."

"I am sure it's lovely."

"My mother wished to thank you!"

"No, really."

"Mister Holmes, you have captured my heart--"

"I can assure you, you did not capture mine."

"If ever you find your self in the States,"

"A state in which I likely will not find myself in for any reason whatsoever."

"You saved my life!"

"Mister Holmes--"

"What can I ever do to repay you for your services?"

"Your mind is so amazing, I was completely bewildered!"

"Mister Holmes--"

"Your intellect is something which rivals my own! Hahahaha!"

"Brilliant, sir, brilliant!"

"Most envious am I, surely!"

"Missus 'Olmes, you-- oy! What was that for?"

"... no idea, sir, _no_ idea..."

"My sincerest thanks, where I'd be without you, I don't want to ponder upon."

"Mister Holmes--"

"Sir, If you ever, _ever_, need anything, you and your magnificent brain can find me right down there, by the haberdasher."

"Mister Holmes--"

"You look terrible."

I don't even attempt to hold back the smile which spread upon my lips.

"Watson, you've no idea how sorely I crave proper compliments."

He laughs, infectiously, and I laugh, too.

* * *

**Man, it's hard writing so many ass-kissers here.**

**Okay, anyway, reading this may be confusing at first but if you just assume that when person X says something followed by Holmes' response, then it's a totally new person who speaks next. Also, I promise this all dialogue style won't pop up **_**too**_** often.**

**PS: I'm thinking that if I do TWO happy stories in a row... :)**

**Or not, I dunno.**


	8. A misunderstanding

_"I do not have much patience with a thing of beauty that must be explained to be understood. If it does need additional interpretation by someone other than the creator, then I question whether it has fulfilled its purpose."_

_Charlie Chaplin

* * *

_

Holmes was supposed to come away with me to meet these men in some God forsaken clearing in this God forsaken hour of the night. We agreed that the moment Dr. Watson was back in our hands, he and I were supposed to give chase and hunt them down, taking back the bait and bringing them into custody.

But damn that man and everything he claims to stand for! Why, it's just like Holmes to completely ignore my instructions and leave me to scramble after them myself!

The moment we met Hornwell- the one responsible for this ugly mess- Holmes had frozen up and outright refused to move. No matter what form of aggravated impatience I threw at him, the man simply would not look away from the very criminals we were to apprehend. So I took it upon my self, all prior planning gone to hell, and took our charge to exchange for the safe handing over of the dear doctor.

I had spoken barely a word before Hornwell's henchman punched me in the face, grabbed the bag I had been carrying, and shoved their hostage into my unawaiting arms. Of course, this was a major set-back to my plans. As I lay struggling to regain my vision and sense, I could hear footfalls from both in front and behind me. To my horror, the three pairs belonging to Hornwell and his men were receding rapidly into the darkness the same time as Holmes' approached to collect the doctor.

As I have mentioned before; damn that pigheaded man to hell.

I shoved Dr. Watson off of me before he was able to do so himself, and darted in the direction of pursuit. Holmes-- need I be surprised? was no where to be found at my side.

It's a bit embarrassing, I'll admit, so hopefully no one will mind me not going into detail about how I failed to catch the criminals. When I saw that they were good and far, the collateral probably never to be seen again (nor the money in my account which would be replacing it) I huffed and turned back, fully intending to tell Holmes exactly what I thought of him in that moment.

I burst through the bushes, steam practically shootin' out my ears.

"Goddamn you, Holmes! Do you realize that you just allowed three guilty fugitives to go slithering back to their caves?!"

When I looked up, I had wished to all the heavens and to every god who mocks me that I hadn't.

There, just as I had left them, were Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson in a close embrace. That was to expected, I suppose, but then I saw what was most appalling of all-- their mouths were pressed together in a passionate kiss! Fingers twining in the other's hair, fingers caressing, and I don't even want to imagine what else! I turned away with a hiss and pressed my knuckles to my eyes, the pit of my stomach dropping to my feet.

Not only was I witnessing something incredibly illegal, but it was _Sherlock Holmes_ I saw! I can't speak for the doctor, other that I previously held him in the highest regards, but Holmes was a man of the law as much as myself (though I am loath to admit it).

Christ! It may have been dark, but I know what I saw!

Wracking up the courage to face the two _lovers_ again, I approached them and cleared my throat.

"If you gents are quite done, we've got papers to fill out and explanations to be had."

They were no longer lip-locked, to my relief, but they still had their arms round each other. I wanted to rip the two apart, salvage what little respect I still held for either of them, but they did so themselves without my interference.

Dr. Watson flashed a timid smile in my direction. "I want to--"

"Save it." I cut him off. I crossed my arms and stood stubbornly in my spot, waiting for their answer. A sudden chill shot up my spine as I saw Holmes' hand_ steal into Watson's! _

"You two do realize that I'm going to have to report this." I sneered. "You know that, don't you?" I asked again when I got no reply. It appalled me even more than catching one of my own men stealing from an apple cart to watch these two.

I was sincerely expecting Holmes to retort in his usual shrewd fashion, but he didn't. Instead, he held the doctor closer and nodded, turning away and leaving me alone in the dark.

Damn. Damn damn damn, _damn him_! God _damn_ that man!

I trudged after them in a state of panic and uncertainty.

Once Dr. Watson was in the cart, I pulled Holmes to the side. He did not protest as I tugged him by the lapels to get him down to my height.

"I don't understand it, and I sure as hell don't want to hear you explain it. But... confound it Holmes, what were you thinking?"

"I wasn't. I didn't need to." was his grand response.

I sighed. "Look here, _Detective_. I want you to know that what you did tonight was completely irascible behavior. However" I had to pause in order to figure out exactly what the extent of my words were going to be. I settled on the plain and simple truth. "... I promise, I won't tell anyone."

He propped an eyebrow at this.

"Really, Lestrade? I've never known you to sympathize with the criminal before."

"I've got criminals of all types here tonight, you better just thank the Lord Himself that you and me get along just fine, else that cab would be heading to the _jail_ instead of Baker Street."

This produced a smile.

"Then, it would appear as though the person I must thank is you, dear Lestrade."

"Don't thank me. Mind you, Holmes, this doesn't make it any less despicable! I've never thought you of all people would be a... well, a--"

"A heathen invert? A man so apparently devoid and desperate for companionship that my one and only true friendship I posses has inadvertently escalated into something completely out of my control? I apologize, Lestrade, if you had been victim to witnessing this awful event--"

"Just don't do it again, hear me?"

"That's not my promise to make." His eyes look sad, but his voice is calm. It's not a wonder few people know this man.

"Right. Then don't let me see it, please. I think I've done all the over-the-law decisions I can make for one career."

Holmes can be quick when he likes, as I can assure you, shaking his hand wasn't something I was planning to do with him again. But there I was, returning the favor.

"I know I often criticize you for your efforts, Lestrade, but I want you to know that I sincerely thank you for this. Know that your trust is not wasted, nor overlooked by Watson or myself." That innocent-child look came across his eyes.

"Yeah, well I hardly know what to think!"

"Then I advise not to think at all." Then, as if something had all of a sudden dawned on the man, his features fell as his voice lowered. "You understand, Lestrade, don't you? Please tell me you do..."

"Holmes--"

"I love him."

"Just... get in the cab, Holmes. Go back to your ways and leave the rest of us out of it."

* * *

**I was planning to do a part II for this, focusing on what actually happened between Holmes and Watson in a way to "justify" this kiss, but I couldn't write it. Well, I did, but not to my likings; this was actually the fourth story I wrote, but others finished before I was satisfied. Anyway, if people want to see it (I need to keep telling myself that I don't NEED to explain everything, but I have a tendency to do so anyway) I can try again 'cause I actually do have quote for it. If not, then I'll just move on to the next one!**


	9. Enough nonsense!

_"Anyone who has the power to make you believe absurdities has the power to make you commit injustices."_

_Voltaire_

* * *

Never before had I looked upon my surgical knife as something other than an instrument with which I would use to further the heath of a client. To surmise it ever becoming more so was never entered into my mind, nor thought of at a whim. Then again, I've never had reason to question my friend's sanity as well as my own.

"My dear fellow, you're trembling. What's worrying you?"

The man's a master, or else he really is as undaunted at I feared. It sickens me to see him as calm as he is. In a quavering voice, I was able to respond. "I... I just mutilated a man, Holmes... I've _never_ done anything like this in my life..."

"Ah, no need to worry about that. You are a doctor, after all, the procedure should be customary."

"Holmes!"

"Not now, doctor! I am sure there will come a time for you to question my demeanor, to which I will settle your nerves with reason, eh? Well, as it is, I think you ought sit down and let me finish up here. Sit, Watson, I implore! You look about ready to fall over dead."

"Who's to say you won't assist me in doing so?" I shout back.

He laughed, turning away and kneeling next to the dead man on the floor. Running a hand over the exposed abdomen, Holmes replies, "You mustn't think me mad, Watson, as I can assure you that that is far from the truth. This man's death is another man's life. Obviously ours can attest to that."

I shake my head. "What in God's name makes this anything _but_ mad?"

"This? Dear me, you would call me mad when I have just possibly saved all of London? I fear, Watson, that the fool is playing stronger with you than he is me."

"Holmes. This is _murder_! We ambushed him; two to one; five bullets to his chest and a gross mutilation of his person. We've killed this man, and for what reason!"

"I dare say a very good one!" he spits back. "Now please release my waistcoat and allow me my proper footing!"

I hadn't realized that I'd lifted him off his feet and was now standing so close to him. I push him back, running a hand through my hair before remembering that it was coated in blood.

"How I was ever convinced to do this, I'll be damned to know."

"You did it because it was the proper thing to do. You know as well as I that the threat of Moriarty is far bigger than anything we could possibly surmise. This man," his head jerks to the left. "was an accomplice. He had an important document hidden within a specialized capsule which was swallowed for ensured protection. I mean really! who would ever think to check the stomach? Had the prospect not entered my own mind, I'm not sure we ever would have figured it out. Anyway, the extraction of this little capsule could have happened in no other way, as I sense it was urgent, so better us that the Professor."

"You know," I started, not listening to a word Holmes had said. The moment that name passed his lips, I knew. "I find it funny that whenever _I_ bring up the topic of Professor Moriarty, you act as though you've no idea who I'm talking about. It's only when _you_ bring him up that we are able to discuss the matter. So I must ask you, Holmes, when was the last time you injected yourself with cocaine?"

He snapped back to me, lips parted as if caught in mid-sentence, eyes searching my face for any sign of a joke. When he was satisfied that it was not, he regarded me with a humble smile. "Watson, you think me delusional? I must confess, that makes my heart heavy."

"Heavy? My God, Holmes, you convinced me to kill-- no, _mutilate_ a man I'm not entirely sure deserved to be mutilated! I hardly know what to think about any of this! Let me see the capsule."

"_I_ hardly know what to think now that my dearest Watson doubts my sanity. I promise, everything I have told you tonight is real and that Moriarty was indeed awaiting this man. You ought to feel heroic, Watson, you did a great justice tonight."

"You have convinced me to commit _in_justice by telling me that this man worked for _the_ Napoleon of Crime; a man responsible for everything, the grand spider in the centre of some dismal web, the greatest criminal mind in all of London and perhaps the world! And yet, why have I never heard of this man? Why hasn't anybody? Who is Moriarty other than a man who does not exist outside your own imagination; one whose reality you've implanted upon my very own? Now, _show me the capsule._"

He was silent; a look upon his face mirroring that of a whipped puppy. He turned away from me, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Watson, "he spoke quietly. "either you too are under his employ, or you are in someway under the influence. I don't think I can trust you with such an important piece of evidence."

I stare at him, beside myself in disgust, and finding it very hard not to strike the man. When I could see that he wasn't going to continue, I took a step toward Holmes, retching his hand from his pocket, and clasping it in both of my own. He keeps his face turned away from me.

"There." I spat. "His blood is on your hands, not mine. Good luck catching your criminal."

God forbid, I know I've got mine.

* * *

**About time I got some Voltaire in here. But alas, it's a waste! I think this story could do with a lot more polishing up, but I wrote it in one sitting during a not-so-good-writing night and had left it too long that any attempt to make it wonderful would be futile. **

**And yes, one of my favorite theories is that Moriarty is nothing more than a figment of Holmes' cocaine induced imagination, so I am playing along those lines.**

**Get ready for unnecessary rant:**

**Voltaire, like Nietzsche (whom this series seems dedicated to, haha) deserves better. Actually, I do have a bunch of awesome quotes from him, but they all have a **_**romantic**_** overtone to them in my mind. I do think there is deep love between Holmes and Watson, however, I don't wanna flood this with slash (as it's disagreeable to some and would obliterate the diversity I've prided myself of here); I like Mary good enough, but I've no real desire to elaborate on their marriage; and I in no way support Holmes/Adler as I see no evidence in the original text to suggest that such a thing exists. So while somemore slash may make its way here, I am currently second-guessing myself with these quotes and trying to be satisfied with the 'next best thing', if you know what I mean.**

**So that's my excuse for the late update. :)**


	10. It matters not at all

_"A companion loves some agreeable qualities which a man may possess, but a friend loves the man himself."_

_James Boswell

* * *

_

"A folly! A confounded foundering and a negligence to accompany it!"

"It doesn't matter."

"A failure worthy of a Yarder, really. Watson, how you could pride yourself of the writings of a _failure_ is something which I never could understand. I'm an insane man hardly worthy of the situations I ruin."

"It was an understandable mistake, Holmes, no one could have predicted it."

The distraught detective spun at this futile reassurance. "But I am not anybody, Watson! I should have seen it, the clues were all right there in front of my face!"

The doctor stood from his seat, stepping towards his friend. "There's an entire world in front of your face, how could you hope to see everything at once?"

"Because... because I don't see _everything_, I see what _needs_ to be seen. This is a reoccurring problem." He slams both hands atop the backrest of the settee, hanging his head upon his chest and kicking the toe of his boot into the carpet. "It's up to me to see what others cannot."

"Holmes, it doesn't matter."

"But it does." He looks back at his friend, defeat evident in his expression. "Watson, people's lives and their honor rest in my hands and if I am unable to deliver, than what use am I to anyone?"

Watson steps up beside him next to the settee, resting his forearms on the backrest and twittering his thumbs. "You're my friend. That counts for something."

Holmes watches the doctor's hands fidget. "I am the other half of your rent, Watson. You may feel an emotional attachment to me, but practically, I am merely a relief for your purse."

"And also my second source of income, but that's not why I'm here." Watson slings an arm around Holmes' back, squeezing his shoulder warmly. "What you fail to understand is that it is possible for someone to love you for more than just your deductions."

"Love is such a foolish thing to invest your time with." He muttered stubbornly.

"Only to those who invest their time unwisely. Holmes, I don't care that you make mistakes; no one does. We'd be hypocrites if we did."

"It doesn't change the fact that--"

"That no one was harmed, something of substantial value stolen from a man who loved the object more than his bride, and the fact that we are both alive to complain about it."

"Watson."

"Holmes, it doesn't matter. It really doesn't."

They stood in silence now, waiting for the other to say something. Finally, the detective smiled and leaned into his friend. "Thank you for overlooking my mettle, Watson. It means much having someone who will continue to remain by the incompetent man's side."

Watson nodded, not knowing what to say.

* * *

**Tee hee. **

**I thought Boswell deserved a fic. :)**

**There was a small passage in my text book written by Boswell about Samuel Johnson, and he seriously did sound like Watson on Holmes. Oh English Lit. book, you are so misunderstood! Though... not completely. I still can't believe Conan Doyle isn't mentioned in it ONCE, nor does "the greatest literary detective" make an appearance. OH WELL, I SUPPOSE.**


	11. Farewell, dear loves

_"A pair of powerful spectacles has sometimes sufficed to cure a person in love."_

_Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

_

I have always been a man of logic and reason, for they were my lovers with whom I could always rely. Never should I be left in the dark, lost and confused, so long as I had the capabilities to think out the situation. If I found myself scared, even as a young boy, I never let the fear overcome me because I would ask myself what it was I feared, why was it frightening, how was it harming me, and how could I harm it first?

When presented with a case which others would cringe at, whether it be a heartfelt tale of lovers lost or of a criminal so vile none dared to tread his path, I remained untouchable. Reputation presented nothing to me unless I myself formed it, and I was also able to push aside all sympathies and get to the point. By cold logic, I could and did solve riddles and puzzles because of my shouldering of interfering emotions.

They would whisper in my ear during times of hardship, telling me that to sulk the death of my mother was impractical as it would never bring her back nor would she ever hear of, and therefor appreciate, all my sorrows. At the completion of my very first case, pride and joy overwhelmed me, but I was again reminded of the impracticality of dwelling. This was a success, but it would not last.

Over the years, I've prided myself on achieving a neutral look on life. Joy was brief, and so was despair.

But then I noticed a change. A clarity of vision which was lead by a clouding of judgement.

I found that when I worked along side Inspector Lestrade of the Scotland Yard, I would become overjoyed by him. Why? Why did his failure, his total and complete failure, bring to me so much joy instead of frustration? Why did I bother to help him, when I could easily solve the case myself and take in all the profit? I tell myself it is because the stimulation of a problem was my reward, and yet it fails to single out the elusive reason as to why I slowed myself down to keep the lost inspector on the case with me.

When Dr. John Watson stepped into my life, an infinitely more confusing and grander contradiction elapsed and threatened my once impenetrable shell of logic. Like Lestrade, this man's mind wasn't remarkable, his company on cases hardly necessary, and yet without him, I felt utterly lost. Watson's exploitations of my works were embarrassing, over exaggerated and totally beyond the point. And yet I loved it. I hated the books, but I adored the appreciation.

Here is where I took a step back and held my lovers at arm's length, turning the game against them. Reason and Logic were efficient, but not wholly desirable. They fortified my confidence and efficiency, yet what did they do for _me_? They don't improve with time, like Lestrade, and they didn't exclaim in delight as Watson does with my simplest deductions. When have they ever left me with a smile upon my lips instead of just the satisfaction of a job well done? Logic and Reason have, in fact, prevented me from appreciating a lot of things.

They never falter, you see. I could never help them. In the early months, when we were still new to each other, I'd find Watson staring off into the distance or cringing away from certain sounds. I knew why, but I didn't know from _what_ underlaying emotion. He was a mystery to me which my lovers failed to expose. Also alien was the satisfaction of sentiment, I must add.

I was fortified to the hilt. Nothing could escape me, nothing to slow my progress, and nothing to encumber me. Yet when I shoved it aside and divulged into the, shall I say? more _human_ parts of my mind, there was a whole new side to life. Through the many men I have known, in a large part to Watson especially, I've been able to see through my muses, and I have come to realize that I don't love them like I used to. No longer are they my everything, for they have been replaced, so to speak. After an assistance for Scotland Yard, or a wonderful evening with my dear friend, I feel a sense of exultation I've never felt before. I relinquish my love of cold logic, and instead with open arms I welcome the warm embrace of pure, utter humanity.

I bid you adieu, my lovers, our life together has been momentous though I fear I now have now found a mistress.

* * *

**I like the voice here, but overall I'm a bit bleh about this fic. It's like a step back looking at things, yet not progressing anywhere. Or maybe it's just the lack of Holmes/Watson bonding? Oh well, voice practice I guess!**

**By the way, I ever tell you guys how much I love you? I do. Like, a lot. (I'd place an incredibly artistic key heart here, but I suppose FF doesn't want me expressing my love with a greater-than three. Alas.)**


	12. To the end

_"The most interesting information comes from children, for they tell all they know and then stop."_

_Mark Twain

* * *

_

It's not often that you find children at Baker Street. It is for this reason that Sherlock Holmes had suddenly found himself face to face with a young boy of eight, standing guiltily in the lobby and obscuring his path to the kitchen which had drawn him from his room. They nearly collided as the detective swung by a sturdy hand round the railing, aiming to leap to Mrs. Hudson's cookery without delay.

But it was not so. Instead of divesting the lady of her newly baked pastries, he found himself standing dumbfounded in front of a frightened boy clutching at his coat, standing wide-eyed and nervous before the hall furniture.

It was some time before he found his words.

"Oh... small child. What are you doing here?" He was finally able to ask.

Timidly, the boy looked up. "I... my mother's here to see Dr. Watson. She's in the room and she asked me to wait here for her..."

There are some moments of awkward silence before Holmes finally decides to return to his original plans. "Ah, I see. Well, I do hope nothing serious is amiss, and that--" He cuts himself off when his eyes catch what the boy was so desperately trying to hide. Pushed against the wall, streaks of dirt splattered all over the carpet and ceramic shards shoved unceremoniously beneath the couch, Holmes sees the fallen vase. Smiling, he cocks his head at the unfortunate art. "Was that you?"

The child blushes and sinks his chin deeper upon his chest. "I didn't mean to break it, I swear! I was only sitting here when I-I... my shoe flew off my foot and hit it and it broke and I tried to clean it up but you saw it anyway!" he pleaded in a voice so wracked with guilt that it flew from his lips at so rapid a pace, that it was hard to understand the poor lad.

With a wave of his hand, Holmes laughed and silenced the stuttering child. "Easy now, my boy! Calm down! It's quite alright, I've always hated that vase and I'm glad you've done me the honor of ridding this house of it. You have my sincere thanks."

The boy looked up, confused, before the realization that he was out of harms reach made him beam with delight that only a child could muster.

"To tell you the truth, sir, I threw my shoe at it!"

"I know." The detective smiled as fear reestablished itself.

"I was... I only wanted to see if I could hit, the... um...the lady--"

"Yes, I've always found nude figures on household furniture a singular thing. Not my taste, to be perfectly frank. Any how, my dear... pray, what is your name?"

"Oh! William! My name's William."

"Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure to meet you, William." The man extended his hand, which the boy eagerly grasped; his fingers hardly able to wrap around the hand.

"My mum doesn't let me introduce myself as Billy, she says no gentleman is ever called Billy. But that's what my friends call me."

"A gentleman's name is a trivial thing to worry about, it means nothing to the soul." Still holding his hand, Holmes guided young William back to the couch and seated himself beside him; Mrs. Hudson's cakes all but forgotten.

"Sherlock. That's a funny name." he giggled as he regarded the fallen vase with new amusement.

"It's a funny name for a funny man. Tell me, William, what is so funny about it?"

"I never heard it before in my life! Rather odd ring to it, too... like something not really real." He flashed a toothy grin at the man which received a propped brow in return. "One of my mates from school is named Gabriel, we always laugh at him for it because our least favorite professor is also named that, but he doesn't mind." the boy grinned.

Holmes gave him a condescending look, which went by unnoticed, and leaned back against the wall. "I once knew a man who painted his face with purple ink, he would carry a single boot with his stub of a hand and threaten us with scurvy. Alas, he had knocked out all his teeth from trying to gnash the bricks on the corner of a building one day, and yet, for whatever reason, he thought that doing so would imbue him the gift of opera singing." He paused to look at William, who was now laughing at the man Holmes had described. Also adorning a grin, he asked, "What do you think of this man?"

"I think he's a bloody idiot!"

"And do you know what we used to call him?"

"I've no idea, sir! Please tell me!"

"We called him Shakespeare. Do you know why?"

"I do not."

"His name was William."

The younger William clamped his mouth shut and ceased his laughter. "Oy! You make your point, sir...."

"I tend to do that. So, my dear William, what brings you and your mother here to visit Dr. Watson?"

Here, Holmes witnessed the boy's lips purse, all the joy from their banter disappearing behind a face of uncertain fragility. William gave a mirthless smile, which suggested deep, misunderstood emotion. Holmes sat up a bit straighter.

"I don't rightly no, sir. She keeps me up at night with all her coughing, and sometimes I get scared that she might choke."

Oh, dear. "I see. Is there anything else?" He asks quietly.

William nods. "She's as white as a doll, which it weird, but it makes her eyes really pretty." He smiles at this knowledge, thinking that it is at least something. "I love my mum," William continues. "Her hair is lovely when she goes outside. Why do ladies wear such big hats, mister Holmes? It hides away all their lovely hair."

"I... I don't know," he responds.

"Me neither. I get to see her hair all the time, though. She never needs the hat 'cause she has me to go out and buy her the things we need. Sometimes, if I'm good, she'll even give me extra to buy some candies." he paused. "D'ya know? I always thought that maybe there was a bad man who she'd see on the way to the market, so that's why she needed me to protect her and get the things for her. But I've never seen him, so maybe I scared him off!"

"Do you know what she has, William?" Holmes asks, ignoring the straying topic.

The boy simply shrugs his shoulders. "I dunno. I think a cold maybe, she says she'll be better soon."

They both turn at the sound as a door opens up above them, revealing a sickly looking woman and a tired doctor.

"Mum!" William shoots out of his chair and races toward her.

"William, have you behaved yourself?" She asked in a weary voice.

"I did, I was talking to mister Holmes here, he told me a funny story." The boy was practically jumping out of his shoes in excitement. The mother laughed, encouraging her son's enthusiasm for sharing with her.

"Did he now? You'll have to tell me about it in the cab."

Holmes watched their happy reunion, observing how the boy's arms hung loosely around his mother's to-small waist as her frail hands lovingly toiled his hair. It was painful to watch, knowing it was in possibly irrevocable danger. He looked away, catching Watson's eye. The doctor shook his head.

Holmes had started in his direction as Watson stepped around the mother and son, meeting Holmes half way; the eagerness to understand wordlessly spoken to him.

Holmes turned the doctor and himself away from eye and ear, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Well Watson, what is your diagnosis?"

"What else can it be?" he whispers back. "She's lost an incredible amount of weight which her body could hardly stand losing, already being of small build, and is stricken with fever and plagued with chest pains. I take it you've taken notice of her soiled kerchief?"

Holmes nodded, glancing over his shoulder briefly. "Tuberculosis, then."

"In it's final stages, I'm afraid. Honestly, I don't see how she's still standing."

"Dear me, that is dreadful."

He already knew that, Watson knows. Holmes wore an indifferent expression, though Watson had already surmised exactly what was on his mind. "She tells me that arrangements have already been made. The boy has relatives out in Sussex, they will care for him when she-"

"When he is robbed of his mother." Holmes interrupts. The doctor nudges his hand briefly before stepping away to express a few last concerns and recommendations with his client while walking her to the door.

With Watson aiding the lady, and William once again distracted by the fallen vase, Holmes finds himself with a sudden impulse.

Quickening his step, he catches William by the shoulder and, kneeling down to his level, brings the child into a gentle embrace. It's met with warm welcome as the lad happily returns the gesture.

"Why don't you read your mother a story when you get home, eh?" He suggest with a smile, holding the boy at arms length.

"I never thought of doing that before. You think she'll like it?"

"Oh yes, mothers love to hear stories just as much as they love telling them. Also, you might show her your favorite toy. I think she'd be deeply interested to hear about all the adventures it's been on with you."

He beamed at the detective. "I know just the one! I can tell her about that time Polly and I found the little river by our house! I think there might be pirates at the end, but she'd be scared to see them."

"Nonsense. She'd have you holding her hand all the way to the end, where ever that may be."

William nodded at him before being called away by the waiting mother, grasping her hand and matching his stride with hers as they walked out the door. And if Watson was correct, which Holmes was, for once, loath to admit he nearly always was, they'd be walking out together for the last time.

* * *

**Had I been able to achieve what I felt when the idea first popped in my head, this may have replaced #4 as my favorite. However, I dunno where I went wrong with it, not like I think it's bad or anything, but I just didn't achieve the emotion like I had intended. **

**Anyway, yes. I also noticed that instead of centering the fic around the quote, like I **_**should**_** be doing, it kinda sorta got addressed and moved along unceremoniously... :D**

**Mark Twain, you have my apologies.**


	13. Letting go

_"This is what is hardest: to close the open hand because one loves."_

_Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

_

The icy water splashed at their ankles while the doctor and the detective heaved themselves heavily over the lower wall.

"Which way did they go?" Holmes asked, his eyes ignited and his breath heavy.

"The man we're chasing, or the men chasing us? I haven't the slightest idea." Watson replied half heartedly.

Holmes swore before darting off ahead of his friend, shouting over his shoulder for Watson to pick up his feet and hurry along. Squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a hand to his thigh, his ever-present war wound throbbing, he hobbled slowly in the detective's path.

"Come quick, man! Or do you wish to let them escape?"

"For God's sake, Holmes, I can't go much farther!" he shouts in a voice laced in agony.

Holmes slowed his pace and looked back to the doctor before coming to a complete halt. Once Watson had caught up, he kept going; surpassing Holmes who only followed with his gaze.

Wracked with pain, chilled to the bone from the river water and irritable at their entire situation, Watson stopped when he was five paces from his friend. It wasn't his fault; not entirely. "I'm sorry, Holmes, but my leg--"

"Watson. I want you to go home."

The doctor snapped back at this, looking Holmes dead in the eye. "Holmes... I know my injury is a hamper on our pace, but I don't think it warrants leaving you here by yourself."

"Being alone would be preferable. Now I ask again, Watson, return to Baker Street and wait for me there."

He glared at Holmes, anger flaring at his supposing Watson weak. Not intending to take the proffered advice, he turns back on course and begins limping forward. "I've come this far. I will not be deterred by my damnable leg."

Holmes swears again, quickly catching up to the doctor and pulling him back by the shoulders to face him. "Listed to me, damned you! Your being here does nothing but compromise the case and I will not have you in harms way!"

"This is ridiculous!" Watson cries.

"No, it is not. It's essential that I go on alone from here to the end. You will ruin everything by staying here."

"And do what? Wait for you to return home battered and bloodied, only to have you collapse before reaching the door? I'd be a failure both as a partner as well was a friend if I even thought of deserting you." He calms his voice and softens his expression. "Leave it here, Holmes. Let us go home and resume this under better conditions."

Holmes stared at him before answering. "I can't do that, Watson."

"Oh for-- Holmes, don't be so imprudent! The case isn't _that_ important." he spits in disgust.

"Watson, please, do as I say and return home. I will join you as soon as it's done."

"The case can wait."

"It's not about the case." he whispers.

"Holmes, what...?"

"Watson. Go home. Alert Scotland Yard and all will be as it should be." A crate had just toppled over and a warning shot fired. They were getting closer now. Watson looks to the source of the sound while Holmes' gaze remained where it was.

Watson wasn't really looking at the sound, though. The cold chill which settled upon his soul wasn't due to the impending conflict. He looked to Holmes with a horrified expression. "You've had no intention of returning from this, have you?" he whispers in a ghost of his voice.

"Please, Watson."

Panic flitted across his face as his breath hitched in his throat. Sternly grasping Holmes' shoulders, he shook him and searched his gaze for an answer. "Holmes, don't do this. Let it go and we can finish it tomorrow! You don't have to...."

"Please."

Another shot makes the doctor flinch, but his eyes instantly meet Holmes' again.

"I can't leave you to them, I don't care what it'll accomplish. Whatever it is, we can work on it together on another day. Please, Holmes!" he begged. "Come home with me."

"It won't work if I'm not here tonight, Watson. And I can promise you, you will be glad of it. I'm sorry, but there really is no other way."

"I'm not going to--"

"If you love me, Watson, you will turn around and get yourself out of here." his voice trembles now. "If you trust me, if you truly know who I am and what I stand for, you will look at all we've been through together and know that it is enough. They will be here in no less than twenty-three seconds. Please Watson, you have always trusted my methods, don't turn on me now."

His heart felt heavy, brain in a Limbo of sorts as Watson considers defying Holmes for the first time in his life. But surely, he wouldn't hurt Watson like this if it wasn't completely necessary. Without needing to think, he throws his arms around his friend and buries his face in his shoulder. Holmes returned the embrace as they hold the other tightly for some brief moments. "I'm selling the Stradivarius if you don't come home." Watson warns.

"Do me a favor and set the rosin aside for me. I may need it." The last is whispered into his ear, and then the detective is gone. Watson is not a very religious man, but even the doctor finds himself praying that if not he, then hopefully God will hold his friend's hand through this darkest of nights.

* * *

**This is based off a dream I had, only it involved the two of them at the bottom of a river and Holmes refusing to swim back to shore. What he hoped to accomplish by that, I have no idea.**

**Love love LOVE this quote, too. **

**Goddamn it Nietzsche, your words are so darned good...**


	14. As smooth as honey

_"Trust that little voice in your head that says 'Wouldn't it be interesting if...'; And then do it."_

_Duane Michals

* * *

_

_Wouldn't it be interesting if I told Watson his room had been infested by a rare breed of Indian bees?_

"I can't stand another night on that damnable settee! I sorely miss the comforts of my own bed."

"Did I ever mention how men have died by one single prick of the stinger? All of which held no previous allergens to bee stings?"

"Yes, you have mentioned as much..."

"I'd hate to see you fall prey to such tiny insects."

"But really, Holmes! It's been nearly two weeks; surely they've moved on by now!"

"When have you ever known an infestation to move on in a matter of days?"

"Well... at least let me call someone to handle them?"

"That would be a terrible mistake."

"You seem very sure about this."

"I have a lot of background knowledge of bees."

"Why is that?"

"Oh, no reason."

He stared in dire concentration at me, as I fear I may have let myself slip. Standing up suddenly, he makes for the staircase leading up to his room.

"Holmes, if there's on thing I know, it's that you don't keep information for _no_ _reason_. You're withholding something from me."

"Watson, I am appalled."

He laughs, pointing a finger in my direction. "Bees? Well I've been to India and I don't recall ever hearing anything about _bees_. If so, then I shall go up there and handle them myself."

I shrug my shoulders indifferently. "Suit yourself. I'll just get the envelope ready for when you fall down that stair with a thorn in your thumb--"

My, my! He's up the stairs in no time at all! Well, this hardly leaves _me_ with enough time for my escape. Without time to spare, I grab my coat and run out the door; Watson's tread heavy upon our floors.

"Two weeks, Holmes!"

"Two weeks of missed opportunities to hone your bee hunting skills, eh, Watson?" I shout back, slamming the door shut behind me so as to protect myself from the ex-soldier I call my flatmate.

And then-- I hear the latch lock.

I Instantly pad my pockets for the key which should be right... ah. Knew I forgot something.

"Watson? Will you be letting me back in anytime soon?" I call out.

"I'm sorry, my dear Holmes, but there appears to be an infestation in the rooms. I'd hate to see you fall prey to them."

"Oh!" I say, laughing. "Watson, you jest. Now please, open the door so I may properly apologize."

"I can't hear you; a bee just flew into my ear."

Again I laugh, but to myself this time. _At least Mrs. Hudson will take pity and let me back in,_ I thought as I leaned heavily against the locked door.

There's some shuffling of feet within the room before Watson places his face against the door so that we were only inches apart. Putting his lips to the hinges, he delightfully declares, "I sure am glad Mrs. Hudson decided to take my advice to visit her brother this weekend. The poor woman really needs the fresh air."

"Is that so?" Dear me.

"Yes. She'll be gone 'til next Thursday, if I dare say it."

I suppose nine days getting to know the lobby of Baker Street won't be too bad. But surely....

"Watson, you do know that I plan to fully make it up to you, don't you? Watson?" And he's gone.

I always think to myself, _wouldn't it be interesting if I were a normal person? _ But then I realize the monotony of such a thing; besides, I still have my picks... oh, hold a moment- I don't think I do have them.

Hum.

* * *

**Okay, so again I deviate from my original plans for this quote, BUT whatever. I'll just take the scrapped situations and try to incorporate them into later adventures, or maybe I can go off and actually work on my chapter story. GUESS WE'LL HAFTA SEE.**

**And with my dire lack of lighter stories, as of late, I hope this will bring forgiveness? :D**


	15. Loose collar

_"Camouflage is a game we all like to play, but our secrets are as surely revealed by what we want to seem to be as by what we want to conceal."_

_Russell Lynes

* * *

_

Weather is was through the influence of my somewhat narcissistic friend, or perhaps through feelings I have procured myself, it came as a great surprise to me when one of Scotland Yard's own detectives was able to rise above all others to assist Holmes in this case. It was a young man by the name of Cecile Reiley. Lestrade had introduced him to us with a smile broad enough to show us that had found his new _protégé_. Holmes and I had looked at each other in wild disbelief when we heard all the praise from the little detective, but put up no protest when we heard that Reiley would be taking his place this time round.

Indeed, I don't think I've ever seen a more proficient man of the yard in all my years of acquaintance with Sherlock Holmes.

Cecile Reiley was able to keep up with all of my friend's explanations and theories and also, much to the surprise of many of us, was able to further explain things which Holmes had not yet reviled. Like the fact that our murderer had used a sharp letter opener instead of a kitchen knife; or that the exit wasn't through the window, but actually right out the very door from which we all entered. He also found a clue which Holmes had not; which, I think, renewed my friend's faith in the Yard.

So once we concluded that our client's lover was _not_ the murderer of her lecherous husband- and that the real killer was a heroic admirer whom had entered through the house, said everything which had remained unsaid for eight agonizing years of forceful marriage, and then ended the wretched man's life with a clean stab through the eye socket- we four; Lestrade, Reiley, Holmes and myself, along with a few other constables, had collected at Baker Street to tell the good news to poor Lady Charington.

She had let tears of utter relief roll down her cheeks without trying to stop them, and was hurriedly accompanied to the cab to meet her savior and her lover. Lestrade flashed a pompous smile to my companion before stepping out onto the landing to converse with Reiley and the other officer.

"One moment," Holmes cried as the officials were about to leave our sitting room.

All three turned to face Holmes, but he stood and raised a hand. "If you wouldn't mind, Lestrade, I'd like a few words with young Reiley there. Just a few particulars on the case, nothing more." he assured. Lestrade shrugged his shoulders and pushed the detective into the room.

"Report back when you're done here, Reiley, got it? I'm not filling out your paperwork just because you solved a case." It was an order, but the smile which followed was evident of the inspector's pride. The younger officer nodded and stepped into our rooms.

"Close the door behind you; it's terrible cold tonight."

"Yessir." he answered with militant obedience.

Holmes had walked to the mantle of our fire, picking up his clay pipe and filling it with his favored tobacco. I seated myself in an arm chair, retrieving my notebook incase I should need to add any particulars.

Reiley stood with his shoulders back, looking proud in his blue uniform.

"So tell me," said Holmes, settling down in his chair. "what is your real name?"

The officer cocked his head at this, regarding Holmes in confusion. "My name is Cecile B. Reil--"

"No, no, my dear girl, you're _real_ name."

I had dropped my pencil and looked at my friend in utter bewilderment.

"E-excuse me?" the Yarder stammered, fingering the cuff of the issued uniform. We both looked to the detective in disbelief.

"I must commence with the fact that I think you would have made a superb actress, had you the drive. Your disguise was nearly infallible." He now regarded the young person with warm eyes and a knowing smile. These words were often directed towards Holmes himself, if I recall correctly.

Reiley looked at my companion with complete horror; like a rabbit caught in the snare. Lips forming inaudible words, it seemed for a brief moment that all composure would be lost.

It wasn't. She looked Sherlock Holmes directly in the eye and smiled a rueful smile. "You're right, mister Holmes." the moment her soft voice entered my ears with renewed strength, the false features melted before my eyes until there stood a very handsome woman before us. "I never sought a life in the theatre. Such a meagre life it would be."

"Indeed?"

"Indeed. I chose to become a detective, as you can see. If my drunk of a father could do it, I saw no reason why I shouldn't advance over his rank despite me being of female birth. But I've been at the Yard for months, and already I've rose above my fellow recruits." Her gaze hardened after a lengthy pause. "I've fooled them for just as long, how have you found me?"

Holmes chuckled. "It's not your fault, I can assure you. I admit that when first we met, I had just assumed you a soft-spoked, lithe fellow who's wits had outdone his more brutish competition. As I've said, you have done perfectly. However, aside from your undeniably feminine hands- which I suppose could be overlooked as some men have such features- there was the obvious lack of something on your throat."

She had placed a hand beneath her chin, rubbing slowly at the exposed neck. Now that is had been brought to my attention, I did notice the smooth surface hidden beneath the high collar of her greatcoat.

"How did you see that?" I muttered.

"After our brief struggle with that drunkard at the bar. Your collar had been pulled back, and I just happened to look up and see your neck in full."

"The bar thug? But... that was near the beginning of the investigation!" she cried in astonishment. "You knew the entire time?"

Holmes looked to me and smiled as though this was known to the both of us. "Not much escapes me, my dear. Now if you'll answer my initial question?"

She inhaled a shaking breath and resumed her collected stance. "Abigail. Abigail Thatcher."

"And a lovely name, at that. Your hair looks beautiful worn short the way it is. I suggest you keep it like that."

She pursed her lips and looks down at her boot. When next she spoke, the voice was heavy and drawn out. "I suppose, then, that your next duty will be to inform the Yard."

The two of us had turned our fullest attention to the man seated with his pipe. He was staring down at the charred bowl, cupping his hand round it to invoke the tobacco to burn. As if neither the young girl or myself were present in the room, Holmes took the pipe from his lips and blew the smoke from his nostrils. Finally, he turned his attentions to the lady. "That is what the law would have me do, isn't it?" he asked softly.

She grudgingly nodded her head. "It's what I would do."

"I see. Well now, Ms. Thatcher, I had hoped by now you would have noticed that I consider some things above the law; at least in some cases. And I think, my dear, that this may be one of those cases."

I felt my heart leap at his answer and never before could I claim to have seen a more disbelieving face than that of Abigail Thatcher's.

"Sir?"

Holmes laughed incredulously. "I should rather see a worthy woman doing the work those men claim to do then to see her hide her talents by shining the shoes of an unknowing husband. All law aside, I'd have to seriously consider what point there would be in my turning you in."

"I owe my career to you, mister Holmes." said she, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"You've nothing to thank me for, Detective. Now it is terribly late, and I fear I have kept you from your paperwork. Why you'd go the lengths to secure a job such as that, I shall never know. Anyway, I cannot guarantee how long it'll take them to find out, but if they've any brains about them at all, they'll do as I have and turn the other way. Lestrade is capable of that much, should it not sorely harm anyone."

"Thank you," She had bowed graciously and treated us to one last smile before walking out the door with a new air of confidence.

The room was silent after she had gone.

After a few moments, I mustered up the strength to chance a question. "What do you think will become of her, Holmes?"

"Her? My dear Watson, though I do fancy myself a fairly sharp young fellow, I must admit that I have the faintest idea of whom you are referring."

"Holmes..."

"Whatever beautiful girl has captured your attentions, I'm sure she will not refuse you. But even I don't know what is or is not possible nor what one may hope to find in the future of our London. Now then, how about you and I put on our best and join the monotony we call society at the Royal? The case is worth celebrating, at least."

I was silent at first before chuckling to myself. "I'm sure you're right; she'll forget me one day and then we can both move on with our lives."

We had ended the case, and the strange scene which followed, on a happier note that I could have hoped for. However, since that night two years ago, I have never again seen the face of Abigail Thatcher amongst the officials at the Yard, nor had I hear ill news of her in the papers. Like most people who take a stand in the world, her efforts have gone by completely unnoticed by the very citizens she has tried to help. Though I have no way of knowing, I pray to God that she is well.

* * *

**I'm not really a fan of these women-undercover-type fics, but... I like it anyway? Well. At least she's not a "typical" teenager who has somehow tricked everyone despite her spunky girly antics, leading up to an OH MY GOD YOU'RE NOT A GIRL???? kinda ending.**

**MOVING ON.**


	16. Breakfast

_"Tears are the silent language of grief."_

_Voltaire

* * *

_

I had been siting at the breakfast table one morning, a hot cup of coffee at my disposal as well as a new sea novel I had picked up the day before. Holmes was looking over the paper last I glanced up, which may have been about five chapters back. In the comfort of our shared silence, I happened upon the line: _Man knows not what the abyss does know. How strange that the infinite darkness holds more illumination while the depressing recesses of the mind of man remains so dark. _I had chuckled to myself when first I read it; it was one of those peculiar lines which one will often find and cling to in a story.

"What illumination could possibly be so beyond our reach that we, on our own, could not even fathom?" I had asked after reading it out loud.

He didn't answer.

Looking away from my book, I saw the paper which he had been reading cast aside and now soaking the moisture from his cold tea. I looked up to his face, and became speechless.

He sat, one leg across his knee, elbow on either armrest and his chin resting heavily on his fist, with a small steady flow of tears falling down his cheek.

"Holmes... is something the matter?" I asked in some concern.

My voice went unheard as he continued to stare into the distance. Reaching across the table, I plucked his sleeve and murmured his name in a low tone. It was only then, as if noticing me for the first time, that he hastily wiped a hand across his face.

"I'm terribly sorry, Watson, but... please excuse me."

"Holmes!"

He had stood so suddenly that I didn't even have time to intercept him. My poor friend strode quickly to his room, but not before I saw that his sobs had become uncontrollable. The door gently closed behind him, and I could heard nothing more.

It took everything within me to sit still that morning, but my friend was forever grateful in my decision to do so. Little did I know that it would be months before I would find out what could bring Sherlock Holmes to tears like it did on that morning.

* * *

**I originally had no intention to post this one, but a lack of updates for nearly a week prompted me to do so. Uhm... I guess I should apologize for making both Holmes and Watson cry so much in my stories, but what can I say? :D**

**P.S.S.S.S.S.S.S. I'm sorry this one's so short!**


	17. As promised

_"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life."_

_Oscar Wilde_

_

* * *

_

Huddled in the corner of the room, a small child sits with his arms thrown tightly round a soft animal made of woolen felt. His cheeks are hot from all the tears and his eyes are shut so tight that it's causing a strange spectre of sundry colored spots to appear in his mind. A mother kneels before him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulders and soothingly rubbing his back.

"Don't cry, love. Wait here and I'll be right back." Her voice is soft and encouraging, but the child can hear the strains she's so desperately trying to hide. He wants to tell her that she's lying, but that he forgives her. Just please don't go into that room. "Wait here; don't move from this spot, you promise?"

He looks up, dropping the animal in favor of reaching for the mother he knows he'll never see again. But his voice is gone when he needs it most while his grasp is so easily untangled from her dress. She stoops down, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead and embracing him. "Your brother will be here for you. He'll make sure you're okay."

It's true, he'd realize years later. Dear brother has always been there. But in that moment it wasn't enough.

"Don't go in there, mother, _please_." he sobbed into her dress. "Those men are liars! They're thieves, mother, their words are rubbish!" The water falls freely down his cheeks as his mother tries to comfort him.

"My child, my sweet loving child." She picks up the little animal and offers it to her son. He didn't want to take it because damn it all, she wasn't listening! But she was so beautiful, so sure of _everything_... mothers don't lie.

He hugged the creature close to his chest while his mother lovingly patted his head. She stood, turning away from him, and walked towards the door. The small boy let out an audible sob to which she turned around. He looked at her pleadingly, but all she did was smile and disappear behind the wooden door.

It was the last time he ever saw her face.

The moment she was out of sight, he threw the stuffed animal against the door and screamed into his shirt. Falling to the floor, fists crashing down like boulders, he cursed the woman with all his energy. Those were murderers in the next room and his mother sealed herself off with them despite his warnings! They were threatening her, he knew, because they wanted something that she wouldn't give them; something they could only obtain from _her_. Why didn't she listen? Why did she go in anyway? She didn't have to prove herself to him, he already loved her.

He did love her.

He dug his nails into the wood and ripped them along the grain. The pain was intolerable as blood made it too slippery to continue. He did it anyway. There was shouting, a man's voice, followed by the collected calm of his mother's. Something had fallen to the floor, and then there were light footsteps moving swiftly toward him.

Here was dear brother, already too late to do anything for their mother. The small child continued cry as his elder sibling gathered him in his arms and held him to his chest like the very animal which had been cast aside. He was shakily reassuring his little brother, asking him if he was alright and if mother was in there. He already knew she was, the words were just formality.

They both flinched as a shot was fired, muffled only by the door between them and the room.

Mycroft screamed; Sherlock memorized their faces.

Mother's didn't lie, that'd be a bad thing to do. If she said she'd be back, then she would.

He'd wait a lifetime just to feel her love again.

He even swore an oath to save all the love he had until she returned to him.

Just as she had promised, so had he.

* * *

**Holmes' childhood was water I never even attempted to tread because other people have made so many intricate links and what not-- I mean, I honestly don't think that Sherlock Holmes NEEDS a tragic childhood-- but, whatever!**


End file.
